


convergence

by curvatures



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: And i like to talk in the tags, But essentially it's sort of like kghn: a timeline, Canon Compliant, I just think they're neat and wanted to write something for them, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, here watch this, i don't think i can say this has any real plot???, introspective, like i genuinely don't know what to call this, yeah. Don't worry though nothing explicit at all!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28665636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curvatures/pseuds/curvatures
Summary: Hinata, as always, with his clementine rind smile:Gimme the next one too.All this giving, all these games. He doesn’t know he’d prefer it any other way.
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio
Comments: 28
Kudos: 89





	convergence

_Skin had hope, that’s what skin does.  
_ _Heals over the scarred place, makes a road.  
_ _Love means you breathe in two countries.  
_ _And skin remembers—_ _silk, spiny grass,  
_ _deep in the pocket that is skin’s secret own.  
_ _Even now, when skin is not alone,  
_ _it remembers being alone and thanks something larger  
_ _that there are travelers, that people go places  
_ _larger than themselves._

 _—_ Naomi Shihab Nye _, Two Countries_

  
  


—

Hinata knew that volleyball wasn’t something that was going to be easy, especially for him, but that’s not really a _big deal,_ or anything, it’s not like any sport comes super easy when you’re under 5’5, but really, he _wants_ volleyball. Volleyball is different. For all of his incessant movement, it’s volleyball which makes him come to a screeching stop outside the storefront that day.

Hinata’s naturally athletic, to an extent. He’s naturally athletic in that he’s a fast runner, has good stamina, is easily motivated and energetic when it comes to something he’s excited about. It makes him a goofy teammate and a fun gym class partner, but doesn’t help _that_ much when he's trying to be competitive. He's still silly and boyish, light as a feather and ready to tumble should he miss a step.

Hinata’s naturally athletic, but he’s also 5’3. Give or take. (Likely take, more than give.) It makes him feel a little more grounded than his peers, sometimes, especially when he’s competing against others. He spends a lot of time looking up and not down, which annoys him to no end. He wants to be bigger. He wants to be better. He wants to be _more,_ and then there’s that moment in front of the electronics shop with the _leap_ and the air, and the tinny warped sound of the television trying to tell him what the song of a volleyball smacking the floor sounds like, and he cannot look away. Like how a bird spreads its wings; a ruffle, an opening, a takeoff.

What volleyball is to Hinata: the sound of a ball meeting hand, a small thing which bowls him over in a rolling wave. A staircase. An airstrip. A launchpad. Another way to prove himself, to raise expectations as he does his feet, his height, and then eyes. Obsession, infatuation, all things hungry and drooling at the mouth— he wants to know: What does it feel like to fly.

—

What volleyball is, to Tobio: Kazuyo and Miwa; the smell of a gym; of an untouched ball, fresh out of the packaging; a race, and then something which kept on running long after the others had stopped; no longer a game, but maybe something like what a friend must be, and also

the only thing his palm would know for a long, long time.

Tobio finds that definitions are fickle things as time goes on; nothing is so cut-and-dry as childhood makes things seem. His sister would say that _volleyball_ meant short hair, meant expectations that don’t settle right on the skin. Tobio wants to play on and on and on, is willing to pull his punches and soften his serves just for a few more minutes of game time. The explanation given hadn’t held any real weight in his head, but she had said _it’s an unspoken rule. Are you going to tell me that’s a dumb reason, too?_ Kazuyo had replied _No one understands what is and isn’t important better than you do,_ and Tobio hadn’t said anything, really, just waited until Kazuyo was done talking to Miwa and told him he was ready to play. He doesn’t really understand the ease with which she leaves volleyball, but then again, he is not his sister. 

Middle school brings similar revelations: _Victory_ doesn’t really taste like anything sweet, and still he hungers for it. There’s five other people on the court with him, but not one of them makes a move to hit the ball, and all of the sudden it’s not just his house that feels empty. _No one understands what is and isn’t important better than you do._

It hurts to lose, but winning isn’t supposed to feel like _this,_ he thinks.

Volleyball has become less fun and more panicked since— well— for a little while now, and yet he continues to place such importance on it, as though relaxing would be defeat, as though defeat would be failure, failure equaling disappointment, as though making the most of the time on the court would mean that he would return home to something other than quiet halls, quiet rooms.

This boy with the orange hair is crying on the steps. Maybe someone else would judge him for it, but Tobio understands how big this game was for him. Heard it in the way he carved the word _win_ out of thin air. He’s terrible at volleyball, yes, but he wanted. He had wanted.

Tobio has always taken him seriously. From the very beginning.

—

  
  


Kageyama could not have fathomed any sort of court like this.

Hinata had told him _you are the king._ Had made him unashamed to wear the crown, but before that had made him to wear the crown in the first place. Kageyama had never wanted any of that royalty, but it had been foisted upon him anyways. These hands don’t tie the cape round his neck like an omen, but let the weight of the jewels settle slow, gentle. _No matter how much of a goody-two-shoes you pretend to be, your true nature is that of a king._ Hinata remakes him, smooths him over and then hones him sharp and gleaming in the strong sunlight through their gymnasium windows.

He throws the dumb towel at his face, and now Hinata is making a noise like a bird being stepped on. The moment’s over, but the impact remains. When Miya Atsumu sees him again at spring nationals, he’ll think _What got into him?_ Nothing’s really _new,_ but things will have shifted. Kageyama will make it to nationals, but not on his own. He will be far from on his own.

  
  
  


Most of his high school memories kind of feel like they’re on the other side of a foggy glass window once they’re done and over with, but there are a few defining flashes, starting somewhere in the vicinity of the words _I’m here_ and ending around _see you later._ There’s Daichi closing the doors on them the first day of club. Hinata, pointing and yelling. Suga saying _I’m not going to lose, either._ Hinata, eyes glazed, reflecting everything in sight like the still surface of a pond. Always Hinata.

He’s never been that interested in anything that doesn’t have some sort of relevance to volleyball, and so he’s never had to make room for Hinata. There’s volleyball, as persistent and ceaseless as it’s always been, but now it comes with this addition, this irreversible connection which tethers him to Hinata in a way he could never have prepared for. Something unexpected and yet so inevitable he cannot even bring himself to be surprised about it. _I’m going to beat you. I’m going to win._

Hinata, sweaty and confused, on the verge of tears, saying _I can still move! I’m not injured!_ The thud of a ball on forearms, on gym floor.

Hinata. _See you later._ Hinata.

  
  
  


— 

  
  
  


Hinata goes to Brazil. Kenma would compare it to a video game in the sense that this is a level which hasn’t been unlocked yet; something he cannot see, or grasp, or use. He does not meet up with Kageyama while he is in Rio. He delivers food, and tries to convince himself that if he pedals hard enough he will be able to ignore all the flashing screens depicting a world where he does not exist. Kageyama does not lie. (He’s a shit liar.) He said _“I’m going on ahead,”_ and then he went on ahead. Hinata is left with the rocks and shrubs in the school garden, feeling like a middle schooler staring up into the vast King of the Court again for the first time. A different king, a new cape. Hinata says _“See you later, Kageyama!”_ and smiles because he means it, but he wants to have a say on when he will do the seeing. He wants to be ready. He wants to rise to meet him.

Hinata goes to Rio, and he could tell himself he’s not gonna watch the Olympics, but that would be a lie (he’s never been good at those, either). An unspoken agreement, made ages ago: _You aren’t standing on the court, but_

_don’t you dare look away._

_If he’s my partner._ Kageyama is going to join the V League, going to play for the Schweiden Adlers. _If he’s my partner._ Kageyama is in Rio and Hinata is “too busy” to see him. _If he’s my partner._

Have you ever seen a video of a wave in slow motion? The way the water seems to separate and come back together again, like veins rising and falling, the pulsing misery of it. The way it becomes a tunnel, a home, for a second— and then once again, _danger._ Hinata meditates on the shore every day. He will breathe out, deep, and open his eyes to the stretching blue. He will make colors unfamiliar again; he does not think of who he is longing to think of.

  
  
  
  
  


The air smells different in Rio. Everything is different in Rio. Hinata is not easily cowed in many circumstances, and logically, rationally, _somewhere_ in his brain he knew he was moving an incredible distance, but somewhere before that had been the even larger thoughts of _BEACH VOLLEYBALL_ and _I HAVE TO CATCH UP._ He’s pretty sure he’s the same person he was back in Miyagi, to an extent— at least, inhabiting the same body— but everything here is new and comes at him with enough force to knock him off balance. _Everything._ There’s no discernible beginning or end to it, just that it involves the perpetual heat, how _quiet_ his shared apartment is, the signs in a language he is struggling to get a hold of, the way he cannot walk steady over uneven sand. Some days, it feels best to shut the blinds and curl up within the cool shade of his bedroom. 

He has to force it, a little, ( _Ha! Ha! Voice it from the diaphragm!)_ and nothing happens without a little help _(Take care of yourself, Shouyou,)_ but as all things do when given enough time, it settles. He is no longer lost or overwhelmed when he makes his deliveries. The sun is warm, and when he steps into the light he finds he’s grinning. When he bikes to the beach, he’s grinning. Heitor asks him to team up. He is given a new name. The days roll forward at the same steady pace they always have, but now he can jog alongside them, unshakeable. 

_The sand is strict, but it’s also kind_. It’s just a matter of finding his footing; once he’s got it, Hinata plants his feet and _jumps._

  
  
  


—

  
  
  


_Return:_ Shouyou will come home to him like a wave reaching shore. He has known many a still water, but the wind is blowing in a new direction now and he is filled to the brim with it, all sun and laughter as light as whipped cream. He’ll crash upon Tobio in such a flurry it’ll feel like he’s wiped him clear of everything that came before, the only prior evidence reduced to mere ripples in the sand. Not in the sense of leaving something behind— nothing destroyed, nothing deserted— but rather a reconciliation, a clean foundation to build upon. Shouyou does not come back to him a light-stepping thing with an uneven gait, still finding where to place his feet on the ground. No, this time he is a man who fixes his feet where they land and then _takes off_ , every fibre of him rising towards the sky. He doesn’t take a knee when he receives. He doesn’t try to burn until every other star dies out. He has lived his routine for so long you could run a hand down the side and feel the grooves he has worn into it, and when he jumps it is as though the apex was a known thing all along. That if no one else was watching, he could freeze midair, just to get a better view of everything that lies below. 

  
  
  


—

  
  
  


What coming home is, as told by Hinata: His mother’s cooking. Natsu’s toothy smile. Old volleyball courts, places which he can carve his silhouette into once more. 

A voice, calling down the hall to him; a challenge, ongoing; a hand, grasping his.

What Hinata is, as witnessed by Kageyama: Every sunrise with orange juice dripped down the side. The taste he gets when he bites his tongue too hard. Hinata takes him and turns him inside out, tugs at the very ends of his being like he’s some weird, life sized balloon animal, and Kageyama lets him. Hinata runs with him to the ends of the earth and then has him realize that there really aren’t any ends, just more sea, more land, more sunshine than he could’ve possibly imagined.

Hinata, as always, with his clementine rind smile: _Gimme the next one too._ All this giving, all these games. He doesn’t know he’d prefer it any other way. 

_Let’s keep on going, on and on and on._ After the game, they do not arm wrestle; that will come later. There’s a lot of things to say, but neither of them has much of a reputation for being good with words. And maybe that’s just the thing; sometimes ( _this_ time, in particular) there is no need for them. There is no end to them, their bodies, the tip of a fingernail, the sharp jut of an ankle. One thousand ninety-six wins. One thousand one hundred losses. Hinata presses him into the door of his hotel room, grins something just a few miles off of what he can only describe as wicked. Tobio can only breathe out quick, reverent. One thousand ninety-seven. One thousand ninety-eight.

So maybe love is something akin to being smeared over the walls of your bedroom like blueberry jam, like all other sweet and unnecessary things which he wants anyways. Volleyball was the only thing he had ever thought of pursuing with any seriousness, really. Nobody plans for this shit at fourteen, especially not the bright orange boy crying too loud on the stairs. Hinata holds all that he is between his teeth like a round grape, all edges tensed over tight skin. In school, his peers would tell stories of people being able to snap off fingers like carrots; the strength of the jaw that goes unused, the innate gentleness within each canine. What pressure it takes to break.

(One thousand ninety-nine.)

They bite their fingers. They kick rocks in school gardens. They press their loved ones into walls and doors and mattresses and say _you’re mine, mine, mine._

Okay, so maybe he doesn’t say _you’re mine._ But what he does say is “Tobio,” and hears a _yes,_ hears the release, doesn’t hear this part but knows he means it anyways; _here’s my blood, my sweat, here is my hard-earned control, here I am in your arms._

  
  
  
  


—

  
  
  
  
  


Hinata could tell you a lot about obsession. About each callous on his hands. About the heat of a thirty-nine degrees Celsius fever.

He could also tell you about the beach, about how both the sand and waves like to ebb and flow, give and take. Could tell you how every centimeter of distance feels when settled in the human torso. Really, he could tell you about many things, given everything he’s seen and all of the places he’s been— it’s not hard, especially for someone so talkative— but what lies at the root of it all is something which began very simple: _I can jump!_ There’s a lot he could say, but this is where it started. Another boy in the black-and-orange number 10 jersey, another boy with a scowling face, and the sky.

And what came after? He is all of it, every last experience. He is one great culmination. 

_Memories:_ Become a lifetime. Kageyama remembers being sixteen. He doesn’t need to remember what a volleyball feels like against his fingers because he’s never forgotten. Sometimes he forgets sixteen, and other times he finds Hinata Shouyou across the net from him and it’s like having a hand squeezed around his heart for the very first time. The realization that even if it’s inside your body, sometimes the organ doesn’t belong solely to you. _What a traitorous thing,_ he used to think. 

Now, he smiles.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [yells into void] this has been a work in progress since september!!!! i sort of started it off strong and then left it alone for months before muscling up like ok. Must finish. i am so relieved to finally release it... if you saw me close it up really fast because i don't actually know how to end things No You Didn't. thanks for reading!
> 
> and special thanks to pam, who screamed with me a lot over the summer about kghn and then ate up every snippet i sent her as i was working on this, and to tiff, who helped beta!! you guys are my rock :') kiss
> 
> Find me on twitter [@daichiscasket](https://twitter.com/daichiscasket)!


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